one may run a race. run and run and become tired as one would when running a race. finally he reaches the point he has set out to pass, the finish line. a final exertion of strength, a holding out the last breath, the seconds are tense and his muscles are strained, and ... finally he and all the others pass the finish line. the athlete gives a final breath of triumph, his eyes closed in relief and relaxation as he slows to a walk, but wait ... all the others are still running. confused, the athlete begins to jog anew. frustrated he sprints forward to the nearest athlete. "I thought the race was over, isn't it over?" he asks. "over? ... race?" the other athlete replies. "It's not over ... and this isn't a race." The athlete is struck with this realization. He thinks of quitting. He thinks of giving up. He thinks of running faster, harder, further than before, but it isn't a race, and it isn't over.

it was the funniest starting line: a man with a broken leg, a blindfolded woman, two men distracted by a butterfly, one person waving at and entertaining the crowd, one guy didn't realize everyone else was running, a boy is asking "where is the finish line", a girl is trying to tie her shoe, somebody was late, amidst it all was somebody refusing to run, someone was yelling "this isn't a race, this isn't a race."

i've been looking for the finish line. I've realized that the starting line continues to move forward with the human race. we are a race; we are not in one.